It’s never occurred to me that as a hi-fructose corn syrup consuming American I should be overtly culture-shocked when traveling in another hemisphere, more over the far-off whimsy of the eastern one. If you think about it, the states are practically a vending machine of human variety. Drop in a couple coins, pick a zip (or in this instance a letter and a number) and who knows what type of ethnically diverse goody will drop down. Nacho Cheese Doritos, Top Ramen, those wannabe french-fry potato sticks, German branded pretzels - it’s shocking really. The point, and I think there is one, is that I wasn’t surprised as much as enamored. After a few weeks in the touristy parts of Bali, I got the overwhelming sense of familiarity, something analogues to Myrtle Beach or Panama City. A large mass of single-minded visitors looking to replicate debaucheries of recent weekends past, but do it on a beach that requires a passport and call it a vacation, or holiday, if you live anywhere outside the US. Sure, step outside the larger cities and you’ll see a scantily dressed man in a sarong: Miami, a large mammal doing the work of a tractor: Amish country, Pennsylvania, or piles of burning, noxious smelling trash: New Jersey, it’s all things I’ve seen, all places I’ve been.
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One could argue, with the advent of McDelivery, Indonesia is actually
more advanced than the burger empire's homeland. |
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The face of a man who can't tell if this is
Kuta, Bali or Venice Beach, California. |
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This was strictly for research purpose only.
We needed to examine how those double-fisting Ozzies carried on. |
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